


Hope & Other Dreams

by ThatSoChangeableChick



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood: Lost Days, Red Robin (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: After Under the Red Hood Comic, Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Family Issues, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 18:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10622919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatSoChangeableChick/pseuds/ThatSoChangeableChick
Summary: He is captured by Black Mask...as leverage...against the Bat.It doesn't really end how anyone wanted._+_In all this Mask overworked his blunt monologue of the promised exchange and Jason recollected all of it to the conclusion of screwed proportions. He sneered, "For fucks sake Roman. Your totally true headcanon's got about as much credibility as the Sionis family name," Jason mocked.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Peeps,
> 
> Here's a story I literally spent all yesterday finishing and I can't be happier, I'm really delving into the completion of works right now - this was another left to rot on my computer before i kicked myself in the ass and did something about it - and it's really fun! So, I really hope you like this one, it's sort of a character study, carry on from the Under the Red Hood comics and my personal HC's wrapped into one. As most of my stories - as you will come to find out - are want to do.
> 
> On a side note, I'd like to thank everybody for the response to Forethought! I will be replying back to all your comments, I'm just a waitress so I'm starting the brunt of my work week now! Look out for more stories, I don't want to leave them on my computer to rot anymore :']
> 
> Enjoy! <3

Maybe, in all this, it was his fault. He'd stuck his neck out, time and again, laid it on the line for a bunch of scum and it was finally coming back to haunt him. He hated this. He hated how he wasn't doing the haunting and he hated how pathetic that very thought itself made him.

He was pathetic. This was his realization in that moment, scrabbling and dragging his deadweight on the stone floor in – of fucking course – another dreary warehouse with no one else in sight. Just Black Mask and the few thugs he hadn't offed. Yet.

If he survived they'd definitely not live a protracted period, hell knowing him, even if he did die maybe he'd crawl out and murder the lot of them. Fuck, he couldn't die yet. He hadn't avenged his first death; he wouldn't handle a second underneath his belt. He barely handled the first.

Fuck did he hate this!

Black Mask sighed and Jason smothered the urge to mock the no-good-blue-blood because it'd hurt his shattered ribs more than it'd hurt ole Mr. Blackie. He heard a dagger being unsheathed which really was fucking great, "I almost didn't expect you to run. For someone's who's been a persistent pain in my ass you're quitting faster than I expected," he noted.

Jason rolled his eyes, this was way too fucking simple. "Is that what you think this is you shallow white collared bastard," he croaked and twisted, fist clenched and sneered grin sharpened, "Let's test that hypothesis."

Mask flipped the dagger from hand to hand, his pressed white shirt bloodied and rolled to his elbows and he fucking hated it because it reminded Jason of the other blue blood that'd nearly killed him. Not that he didn't deserve that. Everyone knew if you made boss man choose between Gotham and anything else, well anything else was shat on and apparently that demented clown was real important to Gotham.

Or maybe just important to B. He never did really figure out which was more important, kind of didn't want that questioned answered.

"Listen kid," Black Mask scoffed, demented wooden face tilted and alight in bloodlust, "I can either shoot that nail out of your hand, then I'll shoot your shoulder blade and after that I'll shoot those nuts your mother said were really special off. And then, well, then we can really have some fun."

On principal Jason snorted.

"Or," Black Mask scraped the bloodied crowbar off the floor and a pasty white bastard flashed to life – which fucking hell got him into this mess in the first place, goddamned fucking flashbacks ruining his reflexes – "You drop it. And I'll let you keep one, maybe," he deadpanned, "Probably not."

"You're a real benevolent psychopath, aren't you Mr. Blackie," Jason mocked, "Been holding out on me, haven't you?" He didn't like defeat but he disliked resurrection more, so Jason pinned his faux smile on and dropped the long nail he'd managed to salvage.

It was literally his only weapon, utility belt slashed off – in a stolen maneuver, he might've added – and boots ripped off, left sleeve dagger shattered into Jason's snapped arm, bomb pellets in his collar exploded beside his toes and his helmet discarded into the corner to silently judge him.

He hated this, did he mention that he hated this. He couldn't even blame this on the bat, which was what Jason really hated about it. He was fucking terrified out of his mind, he fucking wasn't – he'd died and lived through one mortal beating and explosion, he could do it again. Except he knew for certain no one would fucking miss him this time.

He still had hope the first time around.

His head thudded on the stone, splayed up at the cracked skylight and the dark moon slit through the window. Once again underneath the stars in a broken warehouse, his lungs constricted just in memory of that final suffocation – his shattered ribs, five in total, didn't help the feels.

"If you going to murder me and set my head on a pike, at least do it quickly, I can't hear any more of your privileged white trash bullshit," he grumbled at the skylight. Jason tried to inhale, soothe the thunder echoing in his heart and stomach. He really didn't want to barf, unless it was on Mask's pristine, snake skin loafers – what a fucking white collared bastard.

He was such a fucking helpless victim. He'd liked to delude himself as Red Hood, no that he was above that, he didn't need anyone's help that he was victim's saviors and not in fact just an angry kid lashing out because daddy didn't love him as much as he figured. Goes to fucking show how much he didn't deserve daddy dearest's love, didn't it?

B always had the right idea.

Wait…he didn't actually hear that, did he? He isn't that fucking delusional. Yet. "Hold a –" he lifted his head, arched a potent and bloodied eyebrow, "What the fuck was that? You're not going to murder me and set my head on a pike?"

He really didn't intend on it to be such a whine, or to sound so put-off, he'd been shooting for incredulous and irritated as fuck at the mind games but he wasn't a miracle worker. He was bone-fuck tired, a literal zombie and he didn't have time for living (semi)-people's bullshit.

Mask's lips elongated in what definitely wasn't a smile, bared pristine white teeth and Jason scowled at it, leveling with his one good elbow and rock-hard abs into a seated position. "No," Blackie deadpanned, like the alternative was obvious and whirred a finger for his remaining thugs to drag Jason into an agonized stand – his knee definitely shouldn't be in that angle, "You're leverage against the Bat."

Fuckin hell, this was familiar and he hated that. Once he'd ditched the scaly underpants and faux-golden heart he'd figured that'd be the end of playing damsel in distress for the ole bat. It might've been the torment but his scowl worsened, "You certain you don't want to kill me?"

Black Mask was actually rather amused at that.

His thugs tightened and yanked, he wasn't a goddamned puppet and as one might've figured, he wasn't in the bests of moods. "There a reason you think that overgrown bat would want this hot bod?" he tried. Mask didn't know. He couldn't fucking know.

Only the Joker fucking knew. That could've been blamed on how demented and delusional that no good piece of rat shit was, also could be because he'd been the one who'd fucking murdered him.

Mask arched a wooden brow – there were so many wood jokes available but they all felt just a little too cliché, a bit too Robin of him and Grayson of him, and fuck he didn't want that – and flipped the dagger from hand to hand. Again, like a one trick pony with a deformed face that ate his own shit.

It was amusing in the beginning and now, it just fucking ruined the mood. It was worse because Jason realized…

He fucking knew. "I saw the Batman's face, well as much as you can in that cowl, after he thought you'd died underneath that tacky red helmet," he noted and contemplated, "It was the most emotion I've ever witnessed from him, and you – some kid with a big head stuck in a red helmet – illicit that from the infamous Batman. You must've been someone special," he growled and squinted at him, "Once.

"Now you are mine," and that was an actual smile, "There's a freezer with your name on it. I'll visit soon and we can have a little chat about why that is exactly," he flexed his fingers, rolling down his cuffs and filling his chest up in blood-drenched night air.

It _was_ a good, grounding stench, not that that was the point.

Thugs – only six, he could take them if he didn't breathe too hard and suddenly regained ability to move his left arm, left knee and both ankles – yanked Jason towards the kicked in door, and Mask remained, relaxed to soak it all on. "By chat," he unnecessarily specified, "I mean I'm going to beat your face in until even the Batman doesn't recognize you."

"Promise me you won't be talking," he grinned beatifically, fangs bared and kept sights until he was officially head-sacked, tossed into a vehicle and the thugs sat on his broken limbs to hold him down.

He recommended a new diet but that didn't go over so well, so Jason noted how fucking fugly they were until he got his hands on a slim knife from one of their belts. He slid it into his right sleeve, eyes flickering at the dark muffled blurs behind the head-sack. He'd already memorized their faces; it wouldn't be hard pressed to track them down and murder everyone they'd ever been in contact with.

Jason was nice like that. Everyone would get a headshot. There was no need for jealously in casa de la Jason, he had everyone covered, you'd get a headshot and you'd get a headshot – he was the fucking Opera Winfrey of headshots and he didn't mean the picture type shit.

His mastermind plot didn't really do shit in the end, sure he stabbed one fucking thug in the chiseled neck and was a nuisance while they tried to rein him in, chains and shackles and all, but chained up inside a twenty by eight barren meat freezer didn't count as a job well done.

From his position hanging by fractured wrists, each breath a chore in shattered ribs, agony lacing through his numbing shoulders and back, blood drip-drip-dripping down his bare feet and fucking freezing his substantial nuts off did not count as a fucking job well done.

He was pissed and he hated this, loathed how fucking arrogant and thoughtless he'd been to end up in this situation because what, did he really think he could do any good lashing out at Gotham to make himself feel better? He was still a helpless, powerless victim and no garnered bloodlust or newfound entitlement could halt that.

On Blackie's third visit – their chats hadn't worked out too well for Jason, at least burning him with overheated coffee defrosted his nerves somewhat, in the scorching to death front – did a video camera join the _torment the murderous vigilante_ fest. This isn't how you made friends fellas, it really fucking isn't…

Jason guessed. It's not like he's proficient in ' _friends_ ' as are the black and blue freak, and the little birdies after him.

Two overheated, muscular men unlocked his wrists which might've been a fantasy at some point and was now just abrupt agony as feeling spurred to life in his veins. He croaked, "This is so fucking cliché." There's barely enough warmth for that vibration, "So, where's the ransom demand? How much am I worth to ole Mr. Blackie?" his hoarse voice petered off.

He's just glad there's someone to play off, some fucking stimulation was all he asked for in this joint. His wrists are abruptly released and Jason hissed, slammed into the frozen stone floor as blessed warmth finally filtered through the open door. He definitely can't feel his fingers or arms, fucking shit, they're not bending all too good and don't return to position until a thug forcefully snaps them in place.

His teeth gritted to muffle the screech and after an outpour of blissfully blanked colorful language, as he, to an extent, regained autonomy of his bodily appendages Jason noted that maybe he required more than just a little stimulation.

He snarled at the thug, "Don't damage the goods, Kujo. I need my fucking arms to strangle you," and he spat a large dollop of blood smack-dab into Kujo's eyeball. There, that felt a little better. He suppressed a grin as he was punched for it but seriously, he'd have been beaten within an inch of his life anyhow at least he had a mediocre amount of control in effecting it.

Then the torturer of dubious honor arrived, "Hold him up," Black Mask ordered, sauntering into the freezer with a steaming mug of Turkish coffee. Even through a blocked nose it was potent and while he usually hated coffee, he wouldn't mind bathing in that shit.

He huffed and spat out more blood, head lolled as he was lifted, going slack in all the weight he'd garnered just to be difficult and tongued around his mouth for anything gone. Every tooth still there, a little too bloodied though and when Mask attempted to sizzle Jason's chiseled fucking face off, his jaw clenched to stifle the screech.

He'd never give Mask the satisfaction.

Monotone, Mr. Blackie stated, "I've enjoyed having you here," and sipped at the steaming cup of hells' flaming loins. He still hadn't decided how to pay Mask back for this, due payment could only be delivered once a service is complete after all. "As one would a mutt or a plaything that they'll inevitably shred and forget," Mask said into his coffee.

Story of Jason's life.

His arms were getting stabbed with tiny needles, fingers twitching in reflexive movement to showcase he hadn't lost them just yet. His voice rasped, "So. You recycle all your evil monologues from fifth rate villain dot com or does this just come natural –" Even as a fist reacquainted with his gut Jason laughed.

He was fucking hilarious.

There's this twinkle in Mr. Blackie's dead eyes that doesn't have Jason's express approval. His wooden mouth quirked, "Smile for camera, Robin," and signaled the thug behind the camera to roll.

Just for a moment Jason froze, flickering flashes of times when he'd been Robin, and Batman did have to rescue his pathetic behind. Fuck that. That time knotted off with a mortal implosion and Batman didn't rescue the Red Hood. Red Hood wasn't Robin, or Robin Extended Edition.

Red Hood knew better than Batman, living in his extravagant Manor and looking down on all the criminally inclined little fellows. B didn't truly understand Gotham. But Jason did, he was from Gotham – real Gotham, not sugar-coated, thousand-dollar champagne and giggling behind embroidered handkerchiefs Gotham – and because of that, Jason did what Batman didn't comprehend.

It was about time Bruce – nope wait, Black Mask learned that.

In all this Mask overworked his blunt monologue of the promised exchange and Jason recollected all of it to the conclusion of screwed proportions. He sneered, "For fucks sake Roman. Your _totally_ true headcanon's got about as much credibility as the Sionis family name," Jason mocked.

He relished in Mask's irritated deadpan in the camera's topsy-turvy reflection. Jason didn't relish what followed. He anticipated how his blue-tinted finger was twisted but he hadn't resurrected from the dead for this shit.

His fangs snatched out and Kujo roared in high-pitched terror, abruptly released Jason sagged, spat out bloodied, rubbery earlobe and launched newly-released fist and shattered Kujo's buddy's teeth with his knuckles. Their splattered blood bestowed all the warmth Jason required and freedom was right there, the door unlocked and splayed ajar.

He would have gotten away with it too, if it weren't for Roman's meddlesome cattle prod and his mangy thugs. He's tackled by Kujo's buddy, busted appendages jostled and shattered as he's hit down hard. Roman was there, lurking above like a goddamned bat, prod raised and Jason spat excess blood into the irritated wooden face.

It not even an actual face. It's a wooden Halloween mask and it was nowhere fucking near October that freak. Blackie hissed, "I'll enjoy sending pieces of you back to your keeper," which was so fucking cliché, it's like Mask knew how to piss him off.

He doesn't really recall much after that, when he wakes up it's with a splitting headache, strung up to a frozen metal rod and the sensation of excessive electricity enflaming his form. His face feels fresh and that's not good, especially since the rest of his body is one frozen, lulled ache.

Food and hydration and blood circulation are really all he's asking for at this point.

His perception of time is warped, blood freezes at the back of his neck and his attempted escape via wiggling off the meat hook is stunted by his less than responsive appendages. This isn't good, like at all. There's no other known opportunity to escape.

The fact that his ribs, ankles and knee are taped and bandaged, isn't welcome. For the insinuation that Mask can potentially keep him locked in there for years if he guarded the temperature just enough for destabilization and frequently burned Jason's blood stream. He won't be one leverage packet against the Batman until his death.

He won't fucking do it. Jason isn't Robin, not anymore, Red Hood isn't a haplessly naïve kid.

In the time in between Roman didn't visit, instead every few hours a thug with a bloodied apron entered, tucked a microwavable heat packet into Jason's collar and left. That was an almost indescribable agony, heart sunk and thundered and ice clipped at his fingers, an ached numbness lightening down his spine to shudder through his entire frame.

If he survived Jason would kill Bloodied Apron Thug first.

He is occupied, attempting anything to twitch his limbs, mostly his fingers which've stilled hours into the wait and refused to budge, when Mr. Blackie's minion's yells echo in from outside. This is a promising development, much more than the deadness of his fingers.

Minions unlock the freezer door and storm inside, guns trained on Jason and begin unhooking his handcuffs none-to-gently and fuck but for a second Jason's heart thundered for rejoice because he'd actually expected B to rescue him.

He didn't need a late knight in unreflective armor. Jason survived, usually without B's assistance or attempts at the latter. He whistled, "Hold a sec, boys, don't damage the goods, wouldn't want Mr. Blackie to be pissed, now would we?" Minions are little more careful after that, folding his shoulders back into position instead of yanking them as they clasp cuffs around his wrists.

Jason didn't really ask for a look into Mask's sex life but here he is, being led off to a helicopter pad atop an apartment complex fresh from a tiny, family-owned butcher shop in the basement, in thick-rimmed, constricted handcuffs.

From the top of the complex faint orange, dawn sunlight shoots into Gotham, despite the heaviness in his limbs it's breathtakingly beautiful after a fogging freezer. It'll soon be swallowed in the smog-filled clouds as regular folk returned to work. And that feels like home and by fuck, Jason can almost scent the pissed-in streets, overturned trash and cheap, overly sweet sewers drafting into the air.

He is definitely at home.

Inside the helicopter there are seven lucky minions, a duo on either side clutching a chain that'd been wrapped around his waist and cuffs, two piloting up a head with their backs turned, and a trio opposite Jason who can't hide how fucking terrified they are of whatever is happening to Mask.

He is also in unimaginable torment; his blood stream has abruptly kicked into rivulets due to sudden defrosting and he'd much rather die than wait out the lethargic weight and insistent stabs. "So," he rasped as they lifted off, machine guns already trained on him, "Roman's meeting with Luthor didn't go as planned, huh?"

In Mask's monologue, he'd insinuated a congregation between himself and an _outside investor for a joint business venture_ , it wasn't difficult to install two and two together. It also didn't take a certified genius to understand how Batman would do anything in his power to halt that.

Had Bruce considered Jason's life at all, or had Jason loss of future limbs fallen second to Gotham. Again. Every single time Gotham won, Jason shouldn't expect different. He wondered if Roman's video would be preserved on Bruce's hard drive, a manifestation of guilt he could've denied himself if he just picked Jason over Gotham.

By the Minions Faces' Mask's _business venture_ didn't go as outlined. Jason arched a mocking brow and quirked a frozen smirk, "…was it the Batman?" he hissed. By the wave of hard gulps and blown fear, it had been daddy dearest.

Even beneath whipping blades and loaded machine guns' common criminal folk trembled, but not everyone fucking did. Those that didn't were Jason's job. He leaned back, tested the restraints and flexed his bare toes, they hadn't cuffed his feet. Everyone knew his killer thighs were his most lethal feature, those amateurs.

Jason blew the strand of white from his vision and rolled his shoulders, "You fellas really think I used to be Robin?" he asked. There's a moment as they check beliefs in one another, unable to form a coherent thought alone and that's when Jason attacked.

There are destabilizing kicks that crack kneecaps, abruptly loosened chains which're really handy for first degree murder and gunfire shoots him free, punctured his left bicep and meat of his hip before he tackled the gunman into a pilot.

It was sooner rather than later that a stray bullet emptied into the final minion's head, co-pilot straight out smashed through the window at the accelerated jostle and Jason smashed a slide door open, sucked in a deep breath, stabilized in the tumbling wreckage and launched out in the Gotham harbor below.

There's a moment Jason is extended in pure flight, before reality crashed down, he clenched up and slammed into the sea beside the bubbling wreckage of spluttering helicopter blades. As water, did, it flooded every crevice, thankfully it was fucking freezing so his limbs felt temporary relief from the scorched reality of outside zero degrees.

Despite the floated silence in murky underwater, he couldn't fucking stay there. Jason survived, it's what he did, and that's the only constant he had throughout his two lives. Even if he'd failed there for a little while, in the end, look at him he'd survived and he'd do it again, if only to spite B who believed Jason shouldn't've.

Jason sucked in tingling breathes, swimming to a barren shore, just underneath a large bridge where only a few homeless napped and while it took longer than expected, his body a shuddering mess that he'd have to whip into shape, he never really did what anyone else wanted from him.

He'd barely spluttered with relief onto shore before a figure swept down, yanked him by the soaked and desecrated bulletproof shirt and onto firmer land. Jason had heaved out his empty stomach, nearly thanked them before the figure's shoes screeched into focus, and well, Jason knew those boots.

Inside himself, behind panting onto the dry land and soaked like a drowned zombie, there's an eclipse, and everything else blissfully disappeared behind it and the sudden acknowledgement of who it is that'd saved his life. In the gritty mud his trembling hand stilled and everything is muffled into a piercing dull roar.

Before Jason even slightly maimed his _benevolent savior_ , there's a bow-staff stabbed into his temple and darkness descended. For a millisecond, it almost looks like a displaced kid behind the winged mask and Jason is glad to be knocked out if that thought disappeared with it.

His next recollection might've been a dream.

Either due to the excessive comfortableness or the high sedative quality of it. Jason usually doesn't partake in that latter, no matter his injuries, he's a fucking sucker for pain if it means not getting hooked on any of the good shit. The former always hurts more anyhow, it hauntingly mocks Jason in his dreams.

Because comfort doesn't compute in Jason's lifestyle, not anymore, and there's always a sudden weakness when he awakens from that feel. This weakness that who the hell gave a shit if Bruce didn't love him as much as Jason loved him, he'd fall back into ignorance and it'd be enough. It had to be enough because Bruce was Jason's only chance at this.

It might be awhile but he'd always located his wits, their ideologies were too damn different nowadays and any one amble beside B would end in lecture or lock down. In the end, he'd know where he stood and maybe it was fucking lonely but it'd be his fully-autonomous and calculated stand.

He was alright with that.

He wasn't alright with waking up in a room from a naïve past.

In the cream, colored walls and a familiarly luxuriously comfortable bed, there wasn't space to remember what was so detrimental about B's lifestyle. Despite high-sedative dosage he'd cradled into himself in slumber, faced a familiar nightstand and an all too familiar picture, alarm clock, pressed book and note pad.

He'd awakened into a nightmare where Jason hadn't died – probably, yet – and he didn't necessarily know how little Bruce loved him. It's like the world after his death had been erased, a beautiful fucking nightmare if one didn't considered history dooming to repeat itself.

This can't be it.

His leaden arm outstretched, dressed in expensive long-sleeve thermos shirt and shakily pulled the picture frame towards his face. This really wasn't right. His head felt muffled, shrieked and blared in danger as his heart thundered, but the sedatives relaxed any instinct for fight or flight.

He just blinked at the picture he'd forgotten he'd cherished.

He doesn't really remember being that fucking tiny or that naïve – he's a street rat for fucks sake, armor that weakness – or even that ecstatic, especially in the early morning sunlight. He does remember that fond, little smile that'd tricked Jason in believing Bruce could've actually been his Dad.

This is a very vivid dream, or hallucination, shouldn't cross that out in Jason's post psychotic break status. His self-preservation instincts shriek about how fucking delusional he is, on the other hand it'd be more fucking delusional not to seize this once in a lifetime chance.

Imagine life at Wayne Manor 2.0.

On the nightstand, there's water and he chugged it, the picture frame scrapped back into place and he cringed, didn't want to disturb anything in the preserved relic of a room. He firmly planted socked feet against the familiar floorboard and hissed, morphine-induced nausea swishing his stomach, and exhaustion heavily muffled any and all brain function.

He doesn't know what he is doing, only Jason needs to see Bruce, maybe talk to him, he hasn't fucking decided yet. Or, Alfred. Fuck. Jason hadn't seen Alfred face to face in years, this'd be…he really wanted to see Alfred.

He's definitely semi-concussed, lethargic and bone-fuck nauseated but Alfred is probably just outside his door. There's a low racket from the hall, noise he can't decipher due to swaying vertigo and pounding blood in his ears, so Jason staggered forward and stabilized on the door handle, inhaled steadily once and peeked out.

Jason focused and centered on the figure down the familiar hall. Except who the hell is that?

There is dark, mussed hair bun, loaded backpack slung over a shoulder, a rumpled business suit on a short frame and a high-tech phone soaking in all their attention. Then the kid huffed into the phone, enunciated something in a softer voice than that Jason recognized.

This is Tim Drake.

In Jason's home, no in Jason's life.

That killed his fanciful illusion. He hadn't meant anything of actual value to Bruce and fucking hell, he couldn’t forget that for an actually faux-warmed life. It's clear as brightened sunlight on the beach, he'll never have that life back and _Mr. Timothy Drake_ is proof of that.

His form ached in adrenaline, a dizziness settled in as his forearm tightened on the slim throat. Too quick and too unexpected for shoddy defensive maneuvers. He hadn't really intended to do this, choke his replacement out in the hall but it'd be fucking poetic if B found another dead Robin by the room of his former dead Robin.

Tim hissed and attacked, fist shattered Jason's newly healed ribs and Jason snarled, crowded in further and tightened his chokehold.

"I saved your life," Tim hacked and his face blistered red, bucked and jostled without avail, there just wasn't enough room and Jason knew all Tim's moves. Once they had been Jason's. Here Jason had believed Timmy was all about constant vigilance, "Bru –" he tried and choked.

He'd already decided on an air choke, rather than a quicker, painless blood choke, mostly because it'd be more fun for Jason and less fun for the replacement.

His replacement was out of options, terror swam in the poisonous ice eyes and Jason found a weakness, a vulnerable joint in the iced exterior. Oh, it'd always been that simple for Jason. His many tutors taught Jason there is always more than a single route to break someone and Jason wished Tim broken beyond all repair. 

He finally realized how demented his grin stretched once he snorted, "You actually believe Bruce will give a shit if you died? Sure, he'll play at guilt for a while but that'll quit once he finds a better replacement, wait a – he already fucking did," and Jason loomed closer and gnashed, "…why the hell are you still here, you're just a pretender –"

In the next moment, he's tackled, sedatives muffled as his head smashed onto the floorboard and there's a Dick pinning him down with a look of an overprotective and murderous mama-bear. He half-heartedly struggled, exhausted but already a fucking winner with how little Tim moved – like he is still trapped there by a ghostly remnant of strangulation – and bared a crooked grin up at Dick.

He'd nearly forgotten how much he'd loathed this bastard. "You've always been the fucking hero, Dickie-Bird," Jason sniped. He suspected Dick didn't know about Timmy's little weakness, or at least not how lethal it might be. Not unless Timmy divulged Goldie in it.

His stormy blues lifted to Tim, "You alright?" he questioned, quick and efficient, almost battle-ground talk. Huh. He wondered what'd breached the inseparable brothers apart. Oh, did this have anything to do with a certain tiny psychopath?

It did, didn't it? He'd really nailed Tim's weakness on the head and if he continued, it wouldn't be fucking long until Tim disbanded. This might be the final privileged time he'd ever lay eyes on his replacement, in a quick blink there's an intuition that the short frame will disperse from the hall.

Tim massaged his reddened throat – definitely will bruised and Jason's smirk elongated in smugness – and in forced nonchalance, almost indistinguishable from its predecessor, dislodged from the wall and silently bent to pick up his phone.

He didn't even look at Dick, "I'll live. Thanks. I'm just not his biggest fan, obviously," Tim said, already focused on his phone. He turned off the little voice shouting through the receiver and texted out a quick message, his left eye was littered in exploded blood vessels and both eyes were lined with dark, poisonous bruises.

Golden Boy really didn't like that answer, all worried cheeks and lowered brows; someone learned all their lessons from Bruce. "You should go to Alfred. Get a quick check-up," he offered, trying to catch Tim's focused gaze. He was so fucking earnest he must've dislodged a heartfelt thought. Instead Tim just typed out another messaged and hummed.

This was just fucking awkward.

"I will," Tim indulged and so obviously lied, "I want to put a dent in these files first and I've got first-aid in my room. I'll check before patrol tonight, oh –" Tim lifted his head and focused on Jason, "– he sees my existence as evidence that Bruce forgot about him. I don't think we'd ever be friends," he deadpanned.

Seriously? His fighting attempt to yank Jason to his level was that bullshit. It didn't ring fucking true either, his replacement didn't know Jason like that he fucking didn't, that over-privileged bastard couldn't. Things really must suck in Paradise Manor if that's all Timmy Boy figured.

Goldie must've lectured Timmy earlier, about being friends with Jason, ugh, that's so Bruce of him. Lecture bit, not the latter, ugh Bruce and emotional talks. Goldie will fucking hate being compared to Bruce. He'd have to fucking tell him.

Tim ambled past Jason and secluded inside a once barren guest room in the Manor. Guess he knew which room to send the hitman. Goldie deflated, a low rustle in his chest, "You couldn't have been nicer?" he hissed lowly and dragged Jason into a stand.

"Since when have I been fucking nice," Jason sniped. Goldie dragged his still sore arm over his shoulder and sluggishly helped him limp back into his room, despite Jason's half-hearted attempts to make this difficult. His face half-grimaced, "You actually think I'd want to be friends with Mr. Crest Hill?" he scoffed.

Goldie inhaled and threw Jason onto the mattress, "You used to want to be friends with everyone. You used to not care where people were born as long as they were good people. But then again, you also used to not murder people so I guess I was just hoping you didn't become such an evil monster," he stuffed blankets over Jason.

But then, he'd fucking _died_.

He was too fucking exhausted for this, his jaw twanged onto the pillow and he huffed, "An evil monster you're tucking into bed?" Jason sassed.

Dick busy-body hands halted and those fierce, stormy blues locked and fired at Jason. He had the sudden impression that Dick would kill him with kindness, or drive him into Arkham until he begged for the former death.

"Despite what you believe, Jaybird," Grayson enunciated, "…abusing someone to somehow make yourself feel better about being abused does not a good person make, so," he emptied two round pills into Jason's hand, "Grow up, and take your goddamned sedatives so you can sleep at night."

Damn. Batman-hood changed Grayson, except not where it counted, in his still a privileged point of view. On the streets, if you're beaten by anyone you're not related to then you beat back, two-fold or three-fold, so they know you're not an easy target. Goldie wouldn't ever understand that.

He'd roamed from loving home to wealth above all mention, and everyone loved him.

Jason growled, "I hate you." He still swallowed the pills and Goldie half-smiled, smoothed the insolated comforter and perched on the edge of the bed. He arched a brow and waited for a while, "You waiting for the poison to kick in? Get off the fucking bed," he slurred.

His eyes scrunched hard, bleariness already descended due to the pills, these were very potent and they better not have addictive qualities. "I'm waiting for you to pass out so you don't attack anymore of our siblings," he shrugged truthfully and smiled, "I'm also here because I care about you."

He didn't like this at all. "You think you're so fucking smart," Jason slurred. Goldie didn't do him the injustice of being coy about it, his grin shined to showcase why everyone fell in love with his devilishly handsome, tanned face, what an absolutely patronizing bastard.

Except Goldie didn't know about Timmy.

He squinted out blurred vision, "You better not be here when I wake up –" To that, there wasn't an answer Jason heard.

Goldie thankfully listened. Except he didn't feel all too grateful because instead there was a familiar, hulking figure looming in muted emotional constipation at his bedside. His attentiveness spiked when Jason blearily blinked and grunted, "…crap," he refused.

He'd just awoken and the dream still hadn't faded. It was still there, despite Tim's presence, probably reinforced by how insecure Tim's actual presence was here. Jason recalled when he'd used to care about other people, other than himself but that'd only happened with Bruce. Hadn't it?

On the streets, if you wanted to survive as a kid being selfish is a basic fact. He'd helped Mum but Jason loved his Mum and Mum was sick, couldn't look after herself, the job to take care of them had simply fallen to him when Mum couldn't anymore. He wasn't that kid anymore and he'd never belonged in the Manor.

That didn't hurt as much as it once did.

"Jason," Bruce exhaled and insisted, "We need to discuss what happened."

Fuck. Business talk. He recalled the rare times Goldie breezed into Gotham, all Bruce and Grayson had done was talk passive-aggressive business at one another and Jason had sworn that'd never be him and Bruce. He wouldn't abandon Bruce like Grayson did.

Except Bruce didn't do to Grayson what he did to Jason. He squinted out a bleary eye, "Nothing happened. How'd Mask get the video to you?" he questioned and straightened against the pillows, scrubbing away slumber and gulping down the water on his nightstand.

Bruce had an odd look as if fucking saddened, heartbroken and still vying for interrogation, "Through the Commissioner," he finally noted. Bruce thumbed calloused knuckles, swallowing hard and averted his gaze in a way Jason didn't trust at all. This was Batman. He wasn't fucking anxious, "How do you feel?" Bruce tried.

This record for most civilized conversation to date would soon end. He still didn't want to hand Bruce the satisfaction of a truthful answer but it'd hurt more than a lie. Jason snorted, "…How do you think? He beat me with a goddamned crowbar, hung me like dead meat as leverage against the goddamned Batman and in my escape, I was shot. Twice."

Jason scrapped back tears, which hadn't been the intended effect at all, and sucked in deep, shaky breath. He doesn't really belong in this bed, or this house, or in Bruce's life. "Careful," he tried to soothe, caught Jason's wrist and he snatched it back, deliberately scratched his temple harder with a mulish look, until he realized what this was like and dropped his hands, "Feel better?" Bruce huffed.

He bestowed a noncommittal grunt. It had to be the goddamned room, throwing him off his game and Jason swallowed, "…what do you expect, from me? Because this doesn't mean we're happy families, as soon as I leave its back to business," Jason insisted. He wouldn't listen to what Bruce wanted obviously but, golden opportunity to be back in B's head. Again.

He just wanted to know so he could spite it. 

Bruce hummed and he'd definitely sensed that thought, slicking a strand of greying hair on his head. "You're getting old," Jason noted before Bruce answered. He didn't know why that thought filled Jason with dread, he shook it out. "It's the medication," Jason insisted and half-scowled, "You know I don't like anything hardcore."

"Your wounds only ended with you being shot, Jason," Bruce reminded. His eyebrows tilted in disapproval and what might've been abstract concern, if one squinted and tilted their head left. Jason felt his face do something peculiar and shut it down, "…wounds that weren't helped by what happened with Tim."

For a whole millisecond, Jason shamed beneath this look until reality settled. Jason snickered, "You going to tell me off?" he'd really perfected that fatherly look since Jason's death. It must've been all the garnered experience.

Jason believed Bruce would start a ranted lecture, it lurked there beneath B's furrowed brows. Instead, Bruce inhaled and breathed it out, thumbing a gorge around his forefinger. "Dick told me what Tim deduced, from experience I can confirm Tim is rarely mistaken," Bruce swallowed, actually swallowed "…Is he also correct for this particular? Do you truly think –?"

He is definitely not doing this. Instead of actually answer that Jason sneered, "If it was, what you actually do about it? You could attempt to glare me into submission or go for a speedy suffocation, which is definitely my favorite, but honestly you've always seemed more of a bat-a-rang to the throat kind of fella," Jason growled.

It wasn't that he hadn't expected violence in Batman but he couldn't be twofaced about it, condemn Jason for burning his trash when he'd ruined it beyond all repair. "I shouldn't have done that," Bruce admitted and swallowed, head actually lowered as Jason looked on in bewilderment. "All the reason I had don't equalize to how I could've –"

He really didn't understand what Bruce shot towards and it heightened his irritation and aggravated-confusion, "– murdered me? You know a lot of fellas that survive slices to carotid arteries, or did you just think you could do one better than your pasty white boyfriend?" he half-shrugged.

Jason couldn't really decipher that convulsed eyebrow wiggle but the gritted scowl was simple enough, so he interrupted, "Honest B." Jason snorted, "I expected a little blood and murder. I didn't follow King B's orders, must've pissed you off, only I hadn't expected how fucking hypocritical it'd blow. You know, with you telling me I can't take out the scum that murdered me and in doing so, nearly fucking murdering me," he hissed.

It's like a switch, hot-steam fumed in his veins but he's stuck, bedridden so instead of rage, his mouth just won't fucking shut. His body shuddering in angered jostles, "I already fucking knew, except you got to triple-check your sources, right? I knew how fucking little you cared with the evidence set out half a world away and I still had to fucking test it."

Years thundered on and it still ached, a low bellow of enraged desperation clawing inside, a whimpering beast only locked behind helpless rage, blind conviction and survival instincts. It shouldn't have felt so breakable in that moment. Everything felt vulnerable and he realized, Jason hadn't intended for everything to fall as it did.

He was just as powerless and helpless to it, as when B had found him and life yanked him back into recollection. He was still vulnerable to the life Bruce offered. He still hadn’t armored that weakness and it broke rank, exposed as a bullseye.

He'd glower at Bruce but he's blinded in tears and not enough rage, it's the sedatives and the pain killers, it has to fucking be. His voice had softened, tenderized, like hopefully beaten meat and Jason twitched at it. "I would have been there in a heartbeat, Jason. I'd never willing leave you," Bruce tried to insist and it skimmed the target, "I don't understand what it was like back then for you. But I do know whoever gave you that information positioned it for their agenda."

No fucking shit. His first coherently heard words in his second life were ' _you remain unavenged_ ', it plastered and tattooed the inside of his skull as he secluded in that dim motel room where his life shattered.

"You think I'm that soft-headed," his degraded scoff twisted into a hiss, "I know. Difference is that Talia didn't lie to me. You know what? Not about anything. Not like you did in your fucking infinite wisdom." His heart thundered and lips tingled from lack of air but fuck, Jason was alive, spitting on Bruce from the comfort of his bed.

There's an urgency, maybe desperation in Bruce's blues and Jason relished in it. It was his turn to fucking suffer, "I haven't lied Jason –" Bruce's head is shaken.

Jason snorted and grabbed the picture frame, "Then what the fuck is that? You think the man you're projecting in this godforsaken picture would do this –" he dragged the hem of shirt down, revealing the livid, stark scar slashed into his neck. It'd been over two years and it hadn't begun to fade, it constantly itched and irritated against any comfort, a reminder of what he'd been dealt.

A reminder of the life Jason envisioned and lived but was all a product of his imagination. He felt vindictive and validated, this was his life and Bruce finally poked his head in and realized he had a fault in that.

Jason huffed and the frame dropped, flipped shut as it bounced on the bed, he shook his head, "I don't doubt you care, B. Only a little in your morally antiquated heart, sure but I know it's there." He swallowed, tongue prodding his mouth and grinned crooked, "But you don't fucking care enough, not about the innocents your beloved rogues murder and not about me."

He flat-out embraced the affirmative silence and Jason huffed and thumbed the thick blankets, he'd fucking known and it still ached. He practically heard Bruce swallow, an unknown desperation flickered in the steel blues as he soaked in Jason, a final memoir to be scripted in the image he'd imprint.

B finally understood what he'd done to Jason. It was over, from this point forward there's only Red Hood and Batman, Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne had officially parted, fucking hell they should've severed at his official death. It wasn't like anyone could repair what'd been destroyed.

He wondered if Bruce intended to do everything that'd happened after his death, as if Jason's death didn't factor into his agenda at all or he'd just noticed how little Jason meant after his death. He doesn't ask because there are question even Jason didn't want answered.

There's a swift moment when Bruce stood, a condemned man like he'd actually know how the hell that felt and spewed something about Alfred and Jason's preference. In all honesty, he'd have fucking preferred not to die or be resurrected but death and life are a bitch like that.

He hadn't noticed the familiar draft of isolation had faded until it burned at Bruce's absence and by fucking hell he'd really fucking missed this joint. His lamp light preened so Jason muted it, tucking deeper under the covers he'd never be able to experience again and just breathed.

It even smelt the same, despite the potent lack of teenage boy and he much preferred it like this, he could almost pretend he'd never died and this was just his life. It was a nice fantasy and nothing else, somethings were better in dream land.

He might've napped for a while but he doesn't really recall. Next Jason is aware there's a semi-nightmarish creature tapping on his bedroom window and weapons haven't been allowed in his general area, only the IV is present and before Jason whipped it out the semi-nightmarish creature ripped off her mask and it's just a kid.

Not a kid-kid. Just a small humanoid of a kind, full faced and dimpled, lips twitching into an excited smile despite the storm raging at her back and rivulets of rainwater are illuminated in faint lightening in the distance. This isn't an attack or kidnapped attempt Jason is proficient in and with semi-confusion his head tilted.

In return this not a kid-kid brandished a fist, head cocked and smile sincere before she waved a hand to signal the window and began to unlock it from the outside. It would've taken five seconds for him to open it but the not-a-kid-kid is already on his carpet after the three second mark, the window shut behind her to lock out sudden downpour and gusts.

This isn't a costume he'd recognized but Jason tilted his head and beneath sunny disposition, all-knowing eyes and open fascination is a look he'd encountered before. He arched a brow and forced a yawn, "Cassandra Cain. You have a reason for breaking in here in the middle of the night?" the no witnesses present was outstandingly discernable.

If there was an answer to that, Jason didn't understand it.

Her dripping facemask plopped on the floor before she kicked off soaked slippers and shook out her wet hair into further disarray. Weirdest bit yet, Cassandra winningly bounded to his bedside. This kid was really strange. Her half-bitten smile content as she looked around the room like she'd never witnessed it quite like this before.

Here he was expecting another death bed. It was rather anti-climactic, "…kid," Jason deadpanned.

Her laser-focus centered on Jason and mimicked, "…kid," in an exact replica in voice, inflection, intention and gravel. He arched a semi-amused, mildly impressed and impatient eyebrow, "You're Jason Todd," Cassandra said. He is unfortunately aware of that.

Even odder that Cassandra almost sounded impressed. And fuck, he wasn't blind to that. It didn't halt the fact that this kid was capable of ripping out his kidney with her pinky and an absent, boredom-induced thought.

"In this world," he muttered, shuffled to thick pillows, mindful of low level physical torment. "So. I figured you're here to murder me with your bare hands," he arched a brow. Her smirk twitched but Cassandra remained without comment. "Or, is there another reason you're in my room in the middle of the night because I don't kiss and tell but adopted family – legally 6 feet under or not – is out of the question. I'm not that fucking sick."

Her mouth curled, repulsion evident and just to be contrite ass, Jason smirked:

"Just yet."

Cassandra's face twisted, as if forcefully sealed from blowing raspberries, and instead perched her soaked self onto his bed. He nearly full-out shuddered, this was torturous punishment, flat-out literally with how the chill had just begun to fade.

He was high fucking risk and while his fingers already deftly yanked out his IV, Cassandra threw out an apologetic look and shuffled, so as not to touch the bundle of blankets he'd entombed in. Jason had actually wanted a fight, in this joint it'd craft a semblance of sense.

"Talk," Cassandra asked. See, that didn't craft into sense. "I want to talk, with you." Talking like a lunatic, just who was thick whacko?

Her hands had folded, large and livid crisscrossed scars cut off at the wrist where black ninja attire began. Still, relaxed about this. Except no one really wanted Jason to talk. It's not because he preached constant truths as he liked to say but because every second word is an invitation, to try and punch his teeth in. He perfected it when he was little and hadn't intended it.

So, rather than verbally question it. Jason snorted and jumped at it, "So. This a predestined conversation or have I been given the benefit of the doubt?" This was such a fucking test. Because, if this was about his replacement Jason might hurl Timothy off a cliff – then there'd be something to talk about.

For a hot minute, Cassandra was lost to frown-filled, lower-lip-worried introspection. Was this not-a-kid-kid even real? Cassandra shook her head, "I would like about…family –" hands encompassed in movement, "Or, you. And both," the not-a-kid-kid murmured.

Tall, double-caffeinated blood-boiling order; that. He'd take it. Or, at least the least rage-frothing one. He spread his arms wide, "I'm an open book, princess. Spoiler though, most read it and weep," Jason declared. Cassandra harrumphed, sparkly painted nail pressed to her mouth in bemused thought.

Good that he can tickle someone in this dead-end joint.

"I know you –" Here Cassandra squinted and pointed at the entire wall of shelves, "Like books and the color green. Told me you like cars and cigarettes, and brave people. That you are brave," Cassandra murmured. He felt stripped, flailed and burnt on a grill beneath her all-knowing look. He also felt vaguely murderous, confused and unsettled – like needles shirking down his spine and hasn't he been tortured enough?

His voice was almost as dead as himself, "…yeah, who told you that?" Jason bland-faced asked.

Her mouth quirked, "Bruce," Cassandra the Cain-Wayne declared. His chest constricted, heart abruptly felt as it shuddered and vaguely expected it to still but no, no such luck. He was still here. His not-sister shuffled closer and he recoiled back in grimace, "Told me you scared him," Cassandra said.

Like it was abstract. His opinion subserviently requested in hindsight on this information she'd recovered. As if this wasn't a huge fuck-ton of an issue with dearest dad. Jason bared his teeth, "Keep talking pretty like that and you'll be buying me dinner," he growled. Cassandra's lids narrowed in thought.

Then her head tilted with a harrumph, "Not like that. You scared him by –" Cain said like he hadn't stated shit. Like he wasn't two dillydallying seconds from slashing this conversation down, " – not looking after yourself. Said _'he flew into battle like he had a death wish_ '," Cain mimicked in perfect rendition of Batman's lowest, gravest and emotionally scarred voice. Her voice lowered to reach where his head had dipped, "That terrified him," Cassandra admitted.

His lids burned, heart traitorously palped and he snarled. "I didn't sign up for Dr. Phil, princess," Jason glowered and Cassandra remained unimpressed, nonchalant and aggravating as she eyed that goddamned picture frame on his bedside table. That was evidence of weakness. Same weakness he'd been so fucking close to disabling forever.

He just wanted to be free from –

"I know," Cassandra simplified and then, like a deranged and homicidal freak; Cassandra Cain laid down beside him. Shoulder to shoulder, head to head and not a lethal weapon in sight apart from the obvious fist ratio. Cassandra patted his shocked shoulder, "You should sleep," and cuddled into his blankets.

From the few inches distance, he eyed Cassandra with as much contempt as he could, pretty certain it came off as shocked and questioning her mental stability, which for a member of this family had to be frighteningly unsound. "You're a fucking loon," Jason mumbled.

Cass harrumphed in her cradled hands, lids already shut. "You too," the princess consoled his shoulder, heartrate slowed and drifted off into an almost instant slumber. And didn't shift, fidget or appear uncomfortable. Her clothes were still soaked – she was in an infamous, if he did say so himself, and frankly unapologetic killer's bed – and the only reason he wasn't acting on that latter bit was because this was barmy, like pill-taking fear-toxin delusional barmy.

It was still stormy outside, flashing of stark light against his window but it drowned in the relative silence of Cass's even, soothed breaths and the glowing warm lamplight. This was the weirdest dream he'd had in a long while, felt vivid enough to screw with his head for a fortnight and leave his stomach clenched.

Cassandra's round, dimpled face was soft in slumber, littered in sharp nicks and scars – evidence that this kid had to have survive shit, and still she was sleeping three inches from his face. He doesn't know how long later but he cannot look at her anymore, the pristine ceiling isn't much better.

Displaced.

He feels displaced – probably from reality, what else is fucking new, right hah Bruce hah – out of his body and out of his mind. This situation right here doesn't fit into his lifestyle, life-stream, life-whatever, and so it cannot possibly be happening. Is this what life could've been like?

It makes the world he lived by appear changeable, malleable and fuck, if that isn't dangerous. The conclusion Jason is staying in is that little sisters are fucking weird. Done. Nothing else to it. Everything else can been decimated, annihilated and have its bloody remains spat on. See, how they fucking like it.

He isn't certain how but he must've drifted off – morphine was a bastard and blew through his defenses, as if he's still in tights and a goddamned naïve fool – because the door clicked and he's abruptly awake. It's just Alfred. _The_ Alfred. It doesn't have a specific cause, other than his literal existence, but his stomach squirmed in shame. "Master Jason," he is greeted, like all is fucking normal.

Like it isn't Jason's life's wish to be a nightmarish thorn in Batman's behind. There is a reason he hadn't visited Alfred. He was always firmly on Bruce's side, no matter what, a Wayne Butler through-and-through, and while he knew Alfred cared about him; he wasn't first priority and Alfred would do as Batman declared, whether he liked it or not. Red Hood couldn't allow Batman such control over Red Hood's closest relation.

Course now that he's faced with swallow cheeks, thin skin and thinner hair. It doesn't feel worth it. It feels like an excuse and that he'd let the only person who'd really cared about him in this house down. Alfred settled a loaded tray upon his bedside table, inhaling just a little before his blue eyes found Jason.

He swallowed.

Beneath a slim moustache Alfred smiled, slightly broken but still here – like Jason –"I see Mistress Cassandra made it home after all," Alfred said. Since he'd awoken he'd leaned against the headboard, hadn't realized the lightly laid hand on his forearm and left it there. He denied the urge to move it, it'd be too telling because for fucks sake he wasn't ashamed of anything he'd done.

His jaw worked but refused to open. It's just…this is Alfred, it might've been old instinct to keep his mouth clean but that hadn't worked for Bruce. "I…I –" Jason swallowed, really unware that a repetitive sound is coming out his mouth before Alfred lays a warm, lean hand on his shoulder.

Alfred's blues find Jason's and remain, transfixed and diligent. It feels like his ribs outright tremble, the goosebumps on his flesh, warning that he is vulnerable. "It is so wonderful to see you again, Master Jason," Alfred declared. That makes one of them. His hand is still there, fond and affectionate back.

One point here is fact, that Jason doesn't deserve this. But, despite it all, now that Alfred's in front of him and wants him here, he can't bring himself to be a sadistic bastard. This'll hurt him later, he knows but he didn't want to be mean to Alfred and nobody said anything about masochism. He thumbed his knuckles, "…back at you, Alfie."

Once Alfred squeezed his shoulder, the hand retracted and Jason fought the idea that any warmth left with it. Cassandra's hand feels like a weight, a final cinderblock before it's released and this reality, with a slumbering partially delusional little sister and an old grandfatherly butler that actually likes him, will vanish. "There are more hash browns, pancakes and eggs downstairs, once you feel well enough to join us," Alfred said.

"I didn't think I was supposed to have solids yet," he murmured, a whisper of cheek while he felt painfully nauseous. Alfred will fucking vanish and he doesn't want that, except nobody gives two-shits what Jason wanted. And, life wasn't fair. It didn't give you what you wanted, he knew that, and he wouldn't fall back into the trap that this Manor set with all its endless wealth and lack of physical threat. Like fuck, there's worse shit than physical threat in here.

Alfred stabilized a fork, hands shifted to clasp behind his back. "I believe we're both aware how you'll find a way to tempt your wounds healing process for a quick escape," Alfred said. Yet he still offered Jason a place at his table. He wasn't worth Alfred for fucks sake.

He harrumphed, tempted back the giddiness at being known and still welcomed. "You haven't changed a bit, Alf," Jason mumbled. It's like the nasty business of his death hadn't happened, he was just visiting home after a long time away and it didn't hurt like that. Only Alfred greeted him back in kindness. Course he made it difficult for the others…

Not that he wanted their fucking affection. He isn't that kid anymore, the fool-hardy idiot living with his denial-inclined head up Batman's ass. Here Alfred faltered, a little, "I know that you haven't either, not as much as you believe," Alfred said. And before, Jason even registered that stab of betrayal. It was followed by this: "And, I'm so very glad you're alive Master Jason," Alfred said, barely above a whisper, sounding faint and pained.

Alfred's hand braced on Jason's shoulder. Despite that, he is numbed – frozen all over again, muddled weight in his brain hardened – and Jason harrumphed, barely-timing his smirk. "Yeah, well," he shrugged, "Someone should be." It wasn't Bruce. It wasn't Dickie. And, it certainly wasn't Jason.

Sometimes he knew that he was better off dead. But, here he was alive and betrayed, and they were all going to have to deal with the consequences. This is a group fucking effort. Because when had Jason ever done what was wanted from him? A humongous, fat never paired with a who-the-fuck-do-you-think-you-are insinuating he did.

Alfred exhaled, harsh in disappointment and breathless in anguish. Not a fun combo. "Oh, Master Jason," Damn this was bad, "I cannot eloquently explain the light your passing took from our life. Nothing since has been the better for it –"

"Yeah, yeah," Jason rolled his eyes. Fastened Alfred with a look, because everyone knew what went on beneath the sound-proof surface. "Right up until Bats filled in a replacement bulb, I know. That's not really helping your case, Alf –"

"No," Alfred insisted. His hands landed on Jason, grounded and steadied. So, this is where Bruce's intensity born. It shuddered him from the inside out but whatever, it's not like he's all that alive. "Don't you think for one second your life was replaceable, you are not, nor were you ever a temporary presence in this home." It was practically an order but his hands shook and there's a notion that if he doesn't agree Alfred might disintegrate himself.

He doesn't think that chill in his bones will ever return, not with Alfred looking at him like this. Important and precious. As though being himself is enough to be in Alfred's good books. The world would be a dull, loveless place without Alfred Pennyworth. "Okay," he murmured and laid his hands upon Alfred's, shaking on his shoulders, "Okay." He really thinks Alfred might be close to tears, "I-I'm sorry, Alfred. You want me to – um, get you some tea?"

Alfred laughed lightly and yep, definitely tears in his blues. See this is why Jason opted for blood, sweat and tears – it wasn't as fucking awkward, didn't make his insides crawl out like his zombified heart thundering in the palm of some else's hand. At least the former was natural. "Your presence is more than enough aid, Master Jason," Alfred said.

At this point he sort of wanted it to ring false, it'd make sense like that. Instead Alfred took the vacant seat, squeezed Jason's hand once and draped a spare blanket over Cassandra's prone form. Her face still smooshed into his pillow. "I – thanks," Jason said. It felt weird on his tongue, out of practice despite how once it had felt like 'please' and 'thank you' were all that's consistent in him. "Really, Alfred. You didn't have to do all the stuff you did for me, so – thank you for…everything, I guess," Jason shrugged.

Alfred's mouth softened, all that mushy tender goodness reflecting back in his blues. It's about the only gaze that can cower Jason anymore – there's something to proud of there in that, isn't there? "It is my genuine honor, Master Jason," Alfred declared, "Now, please. Get some rest. Your food will still be here when you awaken."

It's about seven hours later that Jason took his leave. He'd been knocked back into slumber, dusk began to darken through the window and Cassandra's warm patch had faded hours previous. There's noise in the hall, of love and live and smashed vases, and all that bullshit that doesn't include Jason.

It's a compulsion, nothing he can do about it, he has to leave. After he nibbled on the delicious plate of cold breakfast on his bedside table, of course, atop it is a wordless note of a grinning face and thumbs up. If he huffed and contemplated taking the not-a-kid-kid's note, then no one was there to see it.

Each footfall is a chore but freedom, zero judgement and his own goddamned bunker is the light of the end of the tunnel. It's about zero degrees out, contemplating snow and he's about as grateful as a cyborg would be in the rain about it, only assisted by the probably bugged pristine leather jacket and thick combat boots that'd been left out for him. He would've kicked his heels and escaped, with or without them.

It was kind that Alfred cared enough to keep him warm.

It wasn't that kind to find a four-foot-something kid beside the thick graves on his path, in a fancy coat and chubby cheeks bundled on a thick forest green scarf. If the brat thought that nobody knew that color was his mother's exact shade, they were being willfully ignorant. In fact, he looked a lot like Talia – not just in color but in vibe, raised in pride – in the slight epicanthic fold, heavily lashed lids and wide mouth.

Course, it might've just been the scowl. "I don't like you, Todd," Damian declared. Like his Grumpy Cat impression didn't signify that, all shrouded in his shadows, trying to be like his Papa. It'd be cute if it wasn't so sad. What the hell was it with Bruce and colored kids? From Dick, all the way to Damian, no wonder people believed he's a pedophile, hard not to with that conspicuous preference.

"Oh no, however will I live with myself," Jason deadpanned. He slouched further inside his leather jacket, against the frigid almost-snow of near-zero degrees and faint rain. He doesn't care about this kid. Just wanted out.

Though, Damian did have Bruce's eyebrows. That's for certain. It is still horrifying to find out that Batman spawned an offspring, even more horrifying to have the evidence attempting to bat-glare him to death. It just looked like a rage-filled, partially painful pout. "I don't like you, Todd," Damian repeated, "And I want you to stay away from my Father."

Aw, Baby Bat really is trying to protect his Papa. Jason huffed, just a little, because fuck, this is a never-ending cycle, isn't it? One bites the dust, fill it up with a vaguely familiar shape, keep cranking the lever maybe one will last more than a decade as a faithful sidekick. "Please," he arched a hand drily, "He's all yours."

Once he shoved past the kid, there's a loud shout: "You will stop killing, Todd," Damian ordered. Did the kid actually think this would work? That if he wished it hard enough it'd deny the reality of the world they lived in? And here, he thought he liked the kid. Raised by goddamned assassins and still ruined by the goddamned Batman.

He snorted and tilted his head back, "What? You going to stop me?" Does Batman become extra emotionally-constipated and irritable when one of Jason's hits is found? He will have to keep that in mind, have a little fun on the heroic family's expense. Maybe.

"If I have to. I will not allow you to…corrupt my Father more with your actions. If you kill again, I will stop you," Damian declared. This kid. Fuck. This is a kid. Another kid that Batman's going to get killed. It's not his job to illuminate the truth, hasn't worked before and won't start now but…

In that house, there are people that are his family as well, and he won't let them go down with Batman's suicidal quest. Jason hobbled to face the tiny demon, "Do yourself a favor, kid, and learn this. You'll never be more than an assassin. Just like I'll never be more than a street rat and Golden Boy will never be anything more than a circus freak. Don't let the wealthy façade of kind faces in there –" he jabbed at the manor, " – blind the truth that you already know.

"That the life in there," Jason exhaled. He was exhausted, "It's just a dream, baby-bat. Don't let it kill you," Jason shrugged. That's his brotherly advice for the next millennium. Maybe, in his next life it'd be different. Jason hobbled towards the path, further into the darkness and the barren road outside the Manor's gates.

He didn't expect Damian to take it to heart but he did his bit. No other kid should die over his once-dad. He wouldn't be a part of the problem, he'd be the solution. Wait, "And Damian?" he called. The baby-bat's look is fittingly grave for the words, "…keep an eye on my replacement, would you? It'd be a shame if another kid died for B's makeshift storybook of cautionary tales," Jason said.

Jason turned his back and hobbled onward. It's what he did as a street rat, he survived when no one else really wanted it; it's just what he did. Just like there's no hope in Crime Alley, there shouldn't be hope in Jason Todd. That was the real world. That was how reality functioned.

It fucking figured that in a darkened, gothic-styled house of a nightmarish vigilante is the only place that the real world refused to work. But, he wasn't delusional. He wouldn't be sucked in again. That place wasn't his home or his life. Jason outright fucking refused, but despite all that, it was still nice to know that somewhere in the world, reality bent to allow room for hope.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback me what you thought, or liked, or a line you liked, or whatever really :]  
> Thanks for reading :D


End file.
